Withdrawn
by lolzaa98-x
Summary: Tricia Miller is a nobody. Homeless from the age of fourteen, she has since spent her life simply surviving. But since arriving at the Litchfield, things have begun to change. For the first time in her life, she is beginning to form healthy relationships and no longer feels alone in the world. However, bad habits aren't always that easy to get rid of...
1. Prologue

**Warning: This story is likely to refer to sexual assault, self harm and drug addiction in moderate detail throughout. Just thought I should address that as I do not wish to cause upset or to trigger anybody. This is the first fanfiction I haven't written in a while, so I apologise if I'm a little rusty on the writing front. Reviews and feedback are very much welcome as it was one of the main things that motivates me to upload my writing on here, so please don't be shy! **

**This is just a very quick introduction to a short story I plan to write, starring Tricia Miller, a significant cast member who was killed off in season 1. I found Tricia's character intriguing and a very good canvas to write a story about, as the shows producers don't give to much or to little away. I plan to write every three to four days, if the response to this story is positive, but if I don't I'll be sure to update weekly! **

**I hope you enjoy it:) **

**-Lauren xxxx**

* * *

><p>With hair the colour of moonbeams, her skin as smooth and pale as milk, Tricia Miller was a true beauty. With or without shadows lingering under her sharp blue-grey eyes, despite the bulging of her veins and the trembling of her withdrawal enduring body, people still stopped to stare at her, soaking her up, taking what they could get until the girl's accusing gaze interrupted them. Tricia had always hated being pretty though. She had never seen the point in being attractive, to her it was like having the choice between an expensive designer back-pack, and a regular Walmart one. They both did exactly the same job, could carry equal amounts of equipment and handle the exact same weight, yet one cost you more.<p>

That's why, soon after her arrival at Litchfield, she got one of the black ladies to plait her mane of pale sunshine in to neat little rows, streaks of naked scalp acting as a mediator from the sea of butter-cream. The big bosomed ghetto lady, with skin the colour of cocoa and eyes as wide and pale as ice coated pools, was reluctant to go ahead with the procedure.

"Oh, but honey, you look so_ fine_ just natural" The woman pleaded, twiddling the girls hair around her plump fingers. The prison beautician's own hair was a mass of bleached afro fuzz, kept under control by a wide leopard print Alice Band.

"I don't give a crap!" Tricia replied firmly "I'm payin ya, aren't I?"

Both woman's eyes darted over to the stack of commissary, piled on to the bed that served as a seat in the black ladies bunk/salon. She sighed. "Alright, suit yourself, white girl…"

* * *

><p>Just over a month prior to this event, Tricia was free. Well, as free as a homeless teenager could be, roaming the streets of New York aimlessly, imprisoned by her poverty and misfortune. Getting arrested was almost a relief, although she would never admit it. Recording all the items she was forced to burrow, scavenging the trash cans for food, and if the former turned out unsuccessful, sucking dicks in deserted alleys in return for cash. It'd been four years since she'd flown away from her momma's inadequate nest. Four years since she'd soared away, broken free from the suffocating grasp of her assaulting step-father and unforgiving mother. And it hadn't got even the littlest bit easier. So, after departing from Mindy's, the last store on the list of today's return and burrow spree, she was so desperate for a respite, she had to think twice about making a run from the cop outside, casually leaning against his car, as if expecting her. Oh god, and when he clamped those handcuffs around her track marked wrists, she could have sworn she begun to breathe again, properly, for the first time in what had seemed like years.<p>

They had got her. They had finally got her. They were taking her away, to a heated building and a layered bed. To a place where food and shelter was expected, not hoped for. To a place she could perhaps come to think of as a home.

She tried not to show it. Her hopefulness, her longing. She had managed to control it, too dull it and to hide it, securely under a thick mask of aggravation. She resisted as the cops lead her into the station, cursed at the receptionist as he barked out delicate questions as if they were orders, and discarded the detective's leading questions when they interviewed her. She only did so though because, deep down, she knew they did not require her co-operation. They had all the evidence they needed. The stolen necklace pooled in the depths of her coat pocket, the bag of smack shoved into the back pocket of her pants. The arm full of track marks. The stack of unsolved shoplifting reports, all confirming the involvement of a youthful, blonde woman.

I mean, she might as well try to hang onto some pride if she could afford the price, right?


	2. The Arrival

With her rear end stuck upwards, her cheeks spread, Tricia had not felt so helpless in years. At least out on the streets, there was always a way out, no matter how unpleasant it may be. Where they was a will, there was a way. But here, she felt like a bug trapped under a glass by some kid, there was physically no way she could make an escape. Just how it had been all those years ago. When her step-father would creep into her room before he left for work, imprisoning her in her fear and absence of control.

These were not visions of nostalgia she wished to relive. Being her step-fathers vice had ruined her. He was the reason she took to the streets. Shacked up with her cousin in Tribeca, sold crack for her boyfriend in return for rent, before becoming addicted to the stuff herself. She'd stole the kingpins stash and hitchhiked to Queens, spending her days high as a kite, slumped awkwardly in alley ways. He was the reason this had all begun, this stupid mess she called a life, and therefore any memory of that monster made her stomach wrench.

So she had fought. Point blank refused when the sour faced officer had demanded she strip.

"But we hardly know each other!" Tricia joked, trying to lighten her keeper up a little, perhaps trigger a little compassion. But she had no such luck.

"Cut the shit." Barked the CO. "If you don't take em off voluntarily, we'll have to use force, now I don't wanna have to do that, but…"

The glisten in her eye told Tricia otherwise.

"Don't you think if I had anything, they'da found it at county already?"

The officer snorted. "Seriously, you think I'm stupid? I read your notes. County didn't do a full body search. You were out on bail till this morning."

She almost hadn't been. The officers who handled her case assumed, due to her being a runaway, that Tricia would have no place to be bailed to. She managed to track down her cousin though, now split from her boyfriend and living in a run-down apartment in central New York. During the three week period in which she stayed, Tricia did little else but sleep and get stoned. Occasionally, she'd venture outside and get the subway to the office of her court appointed lawyer, uptown, but nowhere near as frequently as she should have. Truth is, she didn't see the point. They had gotten her. They were going to prosecute her. She had a record, a lengthily history that the court were bound to use to their advantage. Plus, she knew she did not know how much longer she could up with her cousins recurrent partying, gossiping and all night fuck-a-thons. And even she had to admit that she couldn't stay on the streets forever.

"I aint got shit!" Tricia roared suddenly, kicking the door to the examination room. Much to her satisfaction, this startled the officer, making her jump backwards. The CO sighed tiredly. "Fine, have it your way."

She pulled out her intercom. Panic rose and rushed through Tricia's veins. The only thing worse than having one sour-faced stranger examining your naked body, was adding another one into the mix.

"Wait!" Tricia pleaded "I'll fucking do it, okay?"

"Halle-fuckin-lujah!" The guard mumbled sarcastically, ignoring Tricia's trembling limbs, her uneven breathing.

* * *

><p>Down yet another endless corridor, through a set of double doors, a van was parked on the concrete ground. A heavy man, with wisps of strawberry blonde hair escaping from his oversized beany hat, stood in front of it. Inside, Tricia spotted an attractive woman, with perfectly curled hair and lips smeared with pink lipstick. She noticed the other occupants too. Dressed in the same tangerine hue as was she, with indifferent eyes and an aura of threat about them.<p>

The terror hit her like a tidal wave. She knew it had been coming, rolling towards her, slow but steady. But there was nothing she could have done to prepare for it. Her feet were imprisoned in quick sand, she could not avoid the blow that was to come.

Panicked, she manically began to plot her escape.

_Kick the CO in the coochie, drop the box of belongings, and then make a run for it. _

But where would she run?

_To the fence, you can climb to the top. _

How was she meant to run with her hands bound behind her back?

_I'm good at running. I won a bunch of races in middle school._

Even if she could manage to make a dash for it though, how would she avoid being torn to shreds by the barbed wire which laced the fence? The situation made liberation simply impossible.

Suddenly, as if she could read her mind, the guards grip tightened on her shoulder, pushing her forwards. She did not release her until they reached the fat man, cheeks blushed from the chilly autumn air, who immediately slid open one of the passenger doors.

"This is you." Croaked the female CO, before handing her over in to the hands of her colleague.

Tricia had expected it to be warmer inside the van, yet she couldn't be more mistaken. It was almost just a freezing and scented like the rat shit that used to surround her makeshift homes. The other women turned to look at her, intrigued by the presence of someone so young. The driver, who was fortunate enough to be wrapped in the warmth of a burnt yellow bumper jacket, noticed Tricia's disgust and laughed lightly. "Yeah, sorry about the smell." She said chirpily, in a strong Brooklyn-Boston drawl "We never usually bother to crank up the heat, but O'Neil insisted."

"It's cool." Tricia mumbled shyly, studying her trembling hands.

"I'm Morello. Who're you?" The woman asked assertively as she drove straight, approaching the prison, grey and lifeless in the distance.

"I'm Tricia." She mumbled in reply.

"That's your last name?"

"No…"

"We go by last names here." Morello explained.

"Mines Miller."

"Good to meet you Miller." She concluded, turning left.

When they exited the van, Tricia noticed that none of the other girls had been shackled.

"How's that fair?" She protested to O'Neil as he freed her wrists.

"You caused trouble being searched." The officer sighed wearily "and you can never be too careful."

Tricia groaned, shaking out her arms easily in the spirited wind. Then she ran ahead to catch up with Morello and the other women, who were making their way up the side pathway and into the medical unit.

A dark skinned woman sat behind a set of camera equipment, waiting for the new arrivals. When Morello had lead the woman to the stuffy little arrivals room, she quickly made herself scare, promising to meet everyone outside once the medical examinations had been completed.

Tricia stood in line behind the four other woman, waiting all too patiently to be photographed. She had hated being pictured, ever since she was a kid. Eventually though, her turn had to come. With gritted teeth and an unreadable expression plastered across her face, Tricia felt the flash of the camera bright and blinding in the darkened room.

After the felony photo-shoot, the CO taking the pictures ushered the women one by one through to the clinic located in the next room. When it was Tricia's turn, she found a middle-aged Asian-American man sat waiting for her, propped up against an examination chair covered in fine tissue.

"Name?" The man asked softly, getting ready to scrawl things on the form he had ready.

"Tricia Miller."

"Nice to meet you, Tricia. I'm Igme. I'm the prison nurse. I just have to carry out a few tests and ask you a few questions before we set you loose into the prison, so if you'd like to take a seat." He explained, all the while scribbling away, only stopping to motion at a nearby seat for Tricia sit on.

"So, we'll start with the questions. Do you have any history with drug, solvent or alcohol abuse?"

"Drugs." Tricia stated bluntly, admiring the neat tracks decorating her skinny arms.

"Alrighty." Said the nurse ignorantly, making more notes. "And what drugs would they be?"

"Anything I can get my hands on."

"Any preference?"

Tricia considered this for a moment before admitting "Heroin, probably."

More scribbling. "Okay, and can you tell me how long have you been using drugs Tricia?"

"Since I was fourteen."

"And are you a smoker?"

"I guess?"

"What do you mean you guess?" The nurse bit back, suddenly irritated "You either smoke or you don't."

"I smoke when I have the money to."

"Which is how often?"

"I don't know."

Igme sighed. "Alright, next question. Have you ever been pregnant before?"

Tricia froze. Surely it couldn't count. Surely she wouldn't have to say it.

"I don't know." She murmured, trying desperately to keep her emotions in check.

"What do you mean?"

Tricia took a deep breath. "I had a miscarriage when I was thirteen years old." She announced with closed eyes and an increasing heart rate.

"Five years ago now then, is that right?"

"Almost six."

"Right. How far along were you?"

"Ten weeks."

"Right." Igme was silent for a little while as he recorded the revelation Tricia had just delivered. Just enough time for her to blink back the tears welling in her eyes.

"Any history of mental health problems?" Igme continued.

Tricia shrugged. "I dunno what you mean."

"Any self-harming behaviours such as cutting or burning, periods of depression, mania, anxiety…"

"Yeah."

"Do you care to elaborate?"

"I used to cut myself. Back when I was a kid."

"Okay." Igme said, rising from the examination bed. "Time for the physical side of things."

* * *

><p>After the semi traumatizing experience of medical examination was over and done with, Tricia followed Morello down a series of dingy halls until they finally reached her dormitory. As she was Morello's last stop of the day, and the woman was pally with Tricia's new roomies, she stuck around for a while whilst Tricia settled in. The bunk smelt of unwashed bodies and sickness. Morello directed her to the top left-hand bunk, above an older American-Italian woman referred to as DeMarco. Opposite to her, lay another older lady, large and hunched up inside her blankets, her naked scalp gleaming in the dimness.<p>

"How long will I be staying here?" Tricia hissed to Morello as she settled herself down on DeMarco's bunk.

"Not long, kid." DeMarco answered instead. "Pretty young thing like you."

"What's that meant to mean?" Tricia asked, beginning to unpack her box of belongings. The prison issued kit-bag, containing a spare pair of orange slacks and a shirt and several sets of washed-out underwear. Courtesy of Morello, a toothbrush, a small tube of paste, a comb, a soap and some hair ties had also been added to the collection. Aside from these essentials, her thin sketch pad lay back to front, half covered by the holey jade-green material of a blanket she had stolen from her cousin before leaving the apartment to be sentenced that morning.

"It means, only the old and the dying get dumped in this shithole."

Morello laughed. "Get over yourself, Anita! You're not dyin. Your hearts just all fucked up."

"She _is_ pretty old, though." The bald woman from the other bed mocked, chuckling to herself under the blankets.

Morello erupted in to a fit of giggles at this comment, earning her a firm swat on the head from DeMarco.

"Hey, kid, don't make your bed okay? We'll do it for ya. We know how to do it so we'll pass inspection."

"Okay." Tricia answered obediently.

"And don't sleep under the sheets, just the blankets, you got it?"

"Sure."

"Good girl." DeMarco praised.

"Well, I better go. I got an appointment with Sophia." Morello announced, getting up from the bed. "Dinner's in just over an hour, don't come, you don't eat till morning."

As the petite woman bounced out of the room, caught up in the excitement of the prospect of freshly trimmed hair, Tricia called out to her.

"Thank you." She whispered, embarrassed by her gratitude. She knew that it could not go unsaid though. That woman had supported her more in the past hour than anyone had supported her in her entire life, and for that she was thankful.

* * *

><p>Tricia headed for dinner at four thirty on the dot, shadowing her roomies all the way down into the bustling cafeteria. The smell of freshly cooked meat and roasted potato's filled her nostrils, making her feel faint with hunger. She slid into the line behind several other, dawdling women though, until she came face to face with a tray stacked with slices of roasted ham.<p>

She watched as the woman behind the counter piled her plate high with meat, and then moved onwards to the following station, where there were two options to choose from.

"Potato's or Veg?" Barked the thin faced woman behind the station. Her expression seemed impatient and volatile, so Tricia pointed at the potatoes immediately to avoid any conflict. The inmate then balanced a bread roll on to the side of the plate, and inserted a muffin into a separate division of Tricia's tray. It was a miracle that she did not slip on the drool running from her mouth as she made her way to the nearest table.

The potatoes were a little dry, the meat a tiny bit too tough for Tricia's liking, but she knew that was just her being unworthily picky. At least the meal was complete and warm, at least she would go to bed feeling satisfied and full, and in contrast to her past situations involving food, that was enough for her. In fact, she'd shovelled her food down her throat so quickly, she had made a start on her muffin by the time Morello approached her, a group of other inmates in toll.

"Hey, Miller." She greeted, slinging herself down opposite from her.

"Hey."

"Holy shit, you eat fast." Commented one of her friends, a wild haired woman with mischievous eyes coated in thick mascara.

Tricia shrugged awkwardly.

"That's Nichols." Morello announced, gesturing towards the woman, before beginning to tackle her slab of stubborn meat.

"Good to meet you, kid." Nichols greeted holding out her hand, her warm brown eyes suggestive and playful. Feeling uncomfortable, Tricia diverted her gaze to her leg, rapidly beginning to shake in anxiety.

"You too." She managed to murmur, digging back into her muffin.

"Hey, you okay? You're making me feel like I'm in a fuckin earthquake over here." She continued, referring to the trembling leg.

"I'm fine."

"Junkie jitters?" Nichols asked innocently.

"Nicky!" Exclaimed Morello, swatting her on the arm.

"What? It was just a question. Jeez."

"Yeah." Tricia replied. "Something like that."

"Sucks." Nicky sympathised, patting the young girls hand softly.

The women sat in silence for a while after the awkwardness of the previous discussion, instead listening to the occupants at the other side of the bench banter and gossip. Two older woman, both with cropped hair, one the colour of fallen feathers, the other of raw carrots, discussed yoga techniques and practices. A hefty, dyke woman covered in tattoo's sat with her arm slung around a younger, more attractive brunette, whispering sweet nothings to her as she scooped food into her lovers mouth. But then, all of a sudden, the quiet was broken by the arrival of the head chef, a woman with a burgundy pelt of hair and an apron that had _Red _threaded in ruby yarn. The power of her presence was startling. When the women caught sight of her, their conversations began to soften or fade away, their gaze diverted to her creased hands, wrapped around half a dozen pots of yoghurt.

"Hey Ma!" Nichols called out eagerly, shuffling further down the bench.

"Who's this?" The chef asked in strong Russian pronunciation.

"Newbie."

"Ah." She continued, her gaze shifting to Tricia's plate, scraped clean whilst everyone else still struggled to digest the improvised meal. "You enjoy the food, honey?"

Tricia nodded intently.

"Like hell she did, she'd finished before we even sat down!"

A smile began to play of the chefs lips at this comment, her severe dark eyes turning wistful and kind. "Here." She whispered softly, sliding a coloured container over to Tricia. "Have a yoghurt."

That incident gave Tricia instant hope. The way a complete stranger, a foreigner, had put her neck on the line to give her a little extra food to eat. It was like being out on the streets all over again, coming across that odd compassionate individual who offered to buy you lunch, or slipped ten dollars into your begging hat whilst on their way to work. In all her years of homelessness, hope was what kept her going, kept the fire inside of her alight. Without it, she would have had no motivation to continue. And perhaps this respite would continue to occur throughout her imprisonment. The other women had all been so kind to her, so benevolent, and perhaps their consistent empathy and a daily dose of burprenorphine would be enough to keep her going for the next six years. Anything was possible if she wanted it enough.

Until she realised she wasn't.


	3. Mendez

Things began to go wrong later in the evening, when a good percentage of the prisons population gathered around the medical station to receive their nightly medication. Tricia joined them, unnervingly eager for her daily dose of buprenorphine. The substitute fix had been prescribed to her whilst she was on bail, by a sympathetic nurse who worked at the drug centre that she was required to visit twice a week. Of course, she mixed the buprenorphine with the odd fix of street drugs, but even the feds had realised she had started to cut down in preparation for prison, where scoring gear would not be so easy.

So there she stood, her view dictated by Nicky's bush of auburn hair, waiting anxiously for her fix. However, when she finally came face to face with an exhausted Igme, he wore a confused expression.

"I haven't got you down for anything, Miller." He announced, after scanning the notes on his clipboard. Tricia froze. This can't be happening. There must be some sort of mistake. They would have told her if they were taking her off, right?

"No, you got it wrong. I just one just this morning!" Tricia protested nervously, jiggling her leg against the counter.

"Just had one of what?"

"Burper…bupr…I dunno, something that begins with a B…"

"Buprenorphine?" Nicky offered as she slugged down her meds.

"Yeah, that's it!" Tricia said, some of her tension relieved. "Some lady gave them to me from some addiction place, it's helping me cut-down on the heroin I take."

The standing at the head of the queue, monitoring this demanding ritual, released a cruel laugh at this comment. Tricia was to focused and too nervous to give him anything but a quick disapproving glare, before turning back to the nurse.

"I'm sorry, Tricia, but we don't provide opid addiction drugs…"

"You're kidding, right?" Tricia's voiced cracked as she said this, into a half laugh, half cry. She couldn't go cold turkey. She just couldn't.

Suddenly, she felt Nicky's hand on the small of her back. Warm and comforting. "Come on, kid." She urged softly, trying to gently push Tricia away from Igme and the indifferent guard. He was middle-aged, with a moustache so ridiculous Tricia would have burst into laughter as soon as she set eyes on it, if the circumstances weren't so dire. A conceited smirk began to grow on his lips, becoming more prominent as Tricia's distress deteriorated.

"No!" Tricia snapped, pulling away from Nicky's grasp, leaning so far over the medical station that she could smell the nurse's meaty breath. "You give me my meds, right now, chink!"

Nicky could not help but stifle a chuckle at her poor attempt at an insult, but continued to coax Tricia away even so. But it was impossible. The other women in the queue began to become restless and aggravated by the delay, hungry for their sad meds and their laxatives. Moustache man's amusement was fading, his patience wearing thin.

"Move _along_, inmate!" He barked.

"Not until I get my fucking fix!"

"C'mon kid, you know it's not a real fix, right?" Nicky informed, experienced from her own involvement with opid addiction medication.

"Move _along_" The CO said again, louder and brasher than before. When Tricia still refused to move from the medical station, now with her face pressed against the cool counter, her shoulders quaking and hot tears of aggravation rolling down her cheeks, moustache man came closer, his breath tickling Tricia's ear. "Move." He said it quietly, but more sinisterly, as if it was a threat instead of a demand. "Or" he went on, returning to his arrogant, lurid tone "You'll find yourself in the SHU!"

Oblivious to finding yourself in the SHU meant, Tricia kept her head firmly planted on the counter. However, Nicky was shaking with an increased urgency now, digging her nails into her armpits and attempting to lift the girl's petite frame. "C'mon, you don't wanna go to SHU, okay? You'll thank me for this later." She reassured as she finally managed to drag Tricia, defeated and petrified, away from the medical station.

When she thought she was steady enough, Nicky released Tricia from her grip. She stumbled, as if woken from a daze, and stood and looked blankly at Nicky. She had brought her to the corridor in which her dorm was located, but Tricia could not summon the motivation to move.

"It's tough, I know." Nicky understood "But fuck, do you gotta get your shit together kid!"

"I can't." Tricia replied, her tone choked and vulnerable. Her childlike manner tugged on Nicky's heart strings, usually buried under her sarcastic and quick witted exterior, and before either of them could anticipate what was happening, they were wrapped in each other's embrace.

Tricia cried on the shoulder that Nicky had, quite literally, provided, stealing as much comfort from her as she could. After a while, Nicky began to feel uneasy and stepped back, holding Tricia at arm's length.

"Listen, kid, the amount of junkies that come through here is fuckin ridiculous. And if those bunch'a wacko's can get through it, so can you, you hear?" Tricia nodded. "Good. I mean, look at it this way, how old are you?"

"Eighteen." Tricia mumbled.

"Exactly. You're just a kid. It's easier for the younger ones, see, cos they aint be hooked for so long. Some don't even _get _the withdrawal."

"Really?" Tricia was shocked. Every junkie she had ever known had gotten withdrawal.

"Really." Nicky assured "I've seen it happen a bunch'a times. You kids have it easy!"

"Thank you, Nicky." Tricia said, smiling shyly at her saviour.

"No problem." Said Nicky, grinning back at her. "I gotta bounce. Go dry off my shoulder. Bully some CO's in redemption for my saving your arse." She teased, before sauntering back down the hall.

Not long after Nicky had returned her to her dorm, Tricia headed to bed. The hectic nature of her arrival had taken its toll, draping a blanket of fatigue over her. So, swathing her un-metaphorical around her, and after calling a couple of quick goodnights to DeMarco and Ms Rosa, she allowed herself to be swallowed by oblivion.

* * *

><p>But tonight, for the first time in years, her sleep was conscious. Plagued by nightmares and unwanted memories, the voice of her step-father taunting her, the touch of his chunky fingers permanently staining her body. The flashbacks leaked in smoothly, one terror after another. The sound of her Mothers mocking, of her husband's threats. Turning up to parent teacher day, her tiny body sore and tender, without either guardian at her side. They were too busy drinking whisky at the local bar, making intensive love in the upstairs bedroom. She relived all the infinite nights she spent huddled on street corners. The slurs of men who had one to many, looking for a whore to sober them up. The shame she felt when she had no other choice but to agree to their requests, following them into too dark alleys, tasting their vile tools and then blowing her well earned cash on drugs instead of food. Visions of all her unloyal allies crammed her brain, images of them now stable and healthy and safe in their two bedroom apartments in Brooklyn. And there was she, left to rot in a cell.<p>

She woke with a start. Her mouth was hanging open, as if she was silently screaming, and her body was coated in a clammy sweat. Her teeth chattered as she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, peeping out of the window to determine how early it was. Still dark. The earliest they were meant to venture from their rooms was at five, when the sun had just begun to rise.

Knowing full well that she wasn't going to catch anymore sleep, Tricia draped the thin blanket around her shoulders and sat upright on her bunk. Delving into the cardboard box at the bottom of the bed, her hands found the pencil she had smuggled back from the rec room in her bra. Grabbing her sketchbook, faded blue and leather-bound, stolen from a high-end stationery shop in Soho, she began to sketch the outline of Miss Rosa's bunk. She drew her rounded figure lumped under the blanket, her hairless scalp glowing in the starlight that crept in through the window. She drew DeMarco too, from memory, as the sound of her breathing machine was the only indication she was slumbering below. She began by pencilling the creases in her leathery skin, then adding feathers of dark hair to her scalp, before drawing her features, thin and intense, onto her foundations.

Engulfed in her artwork, Tricia failed to notice the moustache man standing in the doorway until he let out an exaggerated cough, causing her to jump and resulting in her giving DeMarco her own miniature moustache. Looks like she couldn't give it to her as a thank you gift after all.

"What do you want?" Tricia asked, annoyed by the destruction of her sketch.

"Why aren't you asleep, inmate?" Moustache man bellowed, apathetic to the other inmates sleeping.

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

Tricia hesitated. "I…I had a nightmare."

"A _nightmare_?" Moustache man sneered.

"Yeah."

"Aw, little baby." He condescended, moving closer into the dormitory.

"What do you want?"

"I don't want nothin, I'm just doin checks."

"Right." Tricia turned away from him.

"But" he continued "I think I got something _you_ want."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" Tricia replied, still facing the wall but hope beginning to well in her chest.

"Why don't we take a walk?"

* * *

><p>Tricia followed moustache man down the unlit corridors, the guards pocket torch the only relief from the darkness. The man ambled down hall after hall, Tricia in his wake, a hungry dormouse trailing nervously after its food-provider. He passed the rec room, the laundry room, the kitchen, before coming to a halt at a door of what seemed to guard some sort of janitorial closet.<p>

The CO swung open the door, looking both ways to check the coast was clear, before ushering Tricia inside.

He got straight to the point. "You want uppers, or downers?"

"Wha-"Tricia began carefully, focusing her eyes on her naked feet, cold and exposed.

"You know what I mean, white trash, so cut the shit." The man snarled, moving closer to her. Now he was in touching distance, Tricia was able to read the letters printed on the breast of his uniform. _Officer G Mendez_.

"Is this some kinda hoax?" She asked, wringing her hands anxiously "I mean, I say I'll take some of your shit and a whole fuckin army of CO's will jump outta nowhere and take me to stew or whatever?"

Mendez sniggered. "It's SHU, dumb cunt."

"Whatever."

"It's no hoax. Now do ya want your god damn drugs or not?"

Tricia didn't even have to consider her answer. Before she could even recognise the consequences that would come from her saying yes, she found herself nodding. "Uppers." She mumbled, ashamed by her weakness.

"Hang on, you didn't think you were gettin them for free, did ya?" The guard sneered, pushing his face so close to Tricia's she could feel the speckles of his spit settling on her cheeks. She took a step backwards.

"My money's not come through yet." Tricia muttered, her eyes trained intently on the unmopped floor, her canvas for shame.

"Who said anythin about money?" Mendez suggested, beginning to rub his groin, his tongue combing through his moustache.

Shit.

"Look, I'm gettin money through in a couple'a weeks. Can't ya just hold on till then?" Tricia almost pleaded, desperate not to relive the terrors of her past, but even more frantic for a fix.

Mendez chuckled spitefully. "No can do. You either suck my cock, or be on your merry way."

"I could report you for this." Snapped Tricia suddenly, blinded by despair "Tell your boss you're dealin. You need me to keep my mouth shut."

He roared at her attempt at blackmail, throwing back his head and releasing bouts of hearty, mean laughter. Then, all of a sudden, the smirk had been wiped from his face and he had Tricia pinned against a wall, her nightie clenched in his pulsing, red fist. She held her breath. Waiting.

"No-ones gonna believe a fuckin word a lil street rat like you comes out with." He hissed, a menacing darkness creeping in to his eyes. "You can't _fuck_ with Mendez." He whispered, sinister smile reappearing on his lips, hot spit spraying Tricia's face. His breath scented almost the exact same as her step-fathers; whisky and tobacco.

Mendez let go, letting Tricia fall to the ground in a heap. More laughter.

"So, what's it gun be?"

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Tricia slipped out of the closet and crept to the showers. She felt for her fix, round and powdery, wrapped in the fold of her underwear. The violet sky was beginning to turn azure, the stars and moon fading, as had her pride. How stupid she was to expect to get through prison without a fix. How foolish was she to imagine herself so strong, so admirable. Strength and goodness just wasn't in her blood.<p>

The bathroom was empty.

Plastic clutches brimming with contraband lined the sinks, and a couple of forgotten towels lie in the sink. Unprepared, Tricia grabs one of the foundation-stained towels and slings it over her shoulder, before slipping behind one of the curtains.

She couldn't go back to her bunk. She just couldn't. She needed to be alone. She needed to mourn. Mourn for the Tricia she had promised she would try to be whilst in prison. A role model. Commendable. A strength of character. Now, there was no going back. Even if, by some miracle, she decided to flush the pill down the toilet, she'd still sucked an assholes cock in order to receive it in the first place.

Tears, hot and desperate, rolled down her cheeks and onto her kneecaps, and she sat with her legs drawn up to her chin, her arms clutching tightly at her ankles. She began to rock, slowly at first, but then faster, until she was swaying so rapidly she felt as though she was no longer there, hunched up under a shower head in a woman's correctional facility, but somewhere better. Somewhere where she felt as though she was floating, everything blurred at the edges, out of focus.

And this was before she took the drugs.

She did not know how long she sat like that, drifting in and out of consciousness, all the while sobbing and trembling and wishing she would just disappear. At some point, she must have retrieved her panties from the pile of clothes slung over the top of the cubical, as them in her hand, crumples and shaking slightly. Inside, she could see the dent that the tablet made in the cheap cotton, sensed its presence.

At that moment, Tricia heard the door to the restroom swing open, making her jump and almost drop the sacred panties right into a pool of water.

"Is anyone there?" Hissed Red, the queen of the kitchen, in her prominent foreign tone.

Tricia instantly pushed back down the tap, cutting off the icy water spilling from the shower head. But it was too late.

"Hello?"

Tricia stayed silent.

"Hello? I know someone is here." Red sighed in frustration, raising her voice. "Only kitchen staff are meant to be in here at this time."

Realising that she couldn't stay hidden behind a shower curtain forever, Tricia scrubbed the tears from the face the best she could, before wrapping the towel around her firmly. Without even comprehending it, she popped the drug into her mouth, let it dissolve on her tongue.

_No going back now. _

Red stood cross armed in front of Tricia's cubicle. When she recognised the sweet, vulnerable child who had complimented her cooking the night before, her irritated expression instantly softened.

"What are you doing up so early, honey?" She asked softly.

"I couldn't sleep."

"No-one can." Red explained. "Not on their first night."

Tricia nodded awkwardly, moving out of her way and towards the steam coated mirror. She could have sworn she was already feeling the hit, but it was probably a placebo.

"Nicky told me about the drugs."

Paranoid, Tricia spun round suddenly, certain that she was referring to the ecstasy she had just popped. Her eyes grew wide and begging, her lips pursed.

"Withdrawal's tough, kid. But you'll get through it just fine, I promise."

Tricia almost let out a sigh of relief. She didn't know anything after all.

"It's just hard." She croaked, shifting from one foot to another.

"Understatement of the fucking _century_." Red laughed.

"Were you a junkie then?" Tricia asked with new-found confidence. This made Red laugh even harder.

"No, honey. I was no junkie. I just know a lot of junkies." She explained, tittering as she made her way into the showers. "Nicky's like a daughter to me, and she is the biggest junkie of them all."

"She saved my ass last night."

"Yes, that's my Nicky." Red chuckled, beginning her shower "Kinder than she will ever allow anybody to know."

Tricia nodded, before realising the thin, waterproof curtain prevented Red from witnessing her understanding.

"You know, Tricia." She went on as she lathered her body in soap "We look after our own in here. We are all here for you."

Tricia was instantly touched by the woman's sincere tone, the weight of her promise. What did this stranger owe her? Nothing, that's what, and yet she was still prepared to take her under her wing, mother and protect her. And what had Tricia done? She had been weak. She had surrendered to temptation, to the moustached devil, and she knew too well that, once the train to hell had departed, it was almost impossible to get off.


End file.
